


sunset in your eyes

by shineyma



Series: and carry me away [5]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-18 14:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11292510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Jemma's priorities experience a sudden rearrangement.[Yet anothercurrent drag me downAU. Can't stop, won't stop.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [current drag me down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7059394) by [shineyma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma). 



> **Please note** : this is an AU that takes place in the same verse as [current drag me down](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7059394/chapters/16048108). Yet again. This time it was prompted, though! As usual, it's just a might-have-been. It won't have any effect on the main story and has no connection to the other current drag me down AUs. (Sigh.)
> 
> Also, **warning** for discussion of abortion.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

“Positive,” Doctor Stutler says, and the sharp current of anger running through Jemma—the current she’s been clinging to and stoking since the admitting nurse sighed and said _I guess I don’t need to ask_ you _if you’ve been sexually active lately_ , the current that made it so easy not to be frightened—evaporates at once.

The world wavers around her; she clings tight to the exam bed beneath her and tries to be distracted by the scratch of paper and cheap fabric against her palms.

“You’re certain?” she asks, voice steady but rather higher than usual.

Stutler rolls her eyes. (Jemma might have known better than to expect any kind of sympathy or compassion here.)

“Yeah,” she says dryly. “Pretty damn.” She consults her tablet; Jemma itches to yank it from her hands and see for herself. “You’re two months along, or thereabouts. HGC is kinda iffy as an indicator—we’d have to do an ultrasound to be sure. But I assume we’re just gonna skip ahead to elimination?”

Jemma’s hand steals to her stomach, entirely of its own volition. “Excuse me?”

“This _was_ an accident, right?” Stutler asks, every bit as knowingly disdainful as her nurse. “I figured you’d wanna get rid of it before the Director got back.”

What she lacks in sympathy, it seems, she makes up for in judgment. Every single horrible thing Jemma has heard about herself since joining Grant’s cause is written across Stutler’s face, clear as day. Of course she assumes Jemma will get an abortion; after all, she’s only Grant’s _whore_ , not his girlfriend. The natural conclusion is that he’ll be annoyed if she ruins her body—and her usefulness—with pregnancy.

It’s a bitter thought, and it leaves a sour taste in her mouth. The resignation that follows, however, is far worse…because as far as Jemma knows, Stutler is correct.

Grant has never given any indication that he wants children—and even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t want them with _her_. Perhaps if Kara had lived, if they’d been left in peace instead of dragged back by Coulson’s desperation after the false SHIELD attacked…

(It’s awful to be jealous of a dead woman, but Jemma has long since become accustomed to it.)

Stutler is waiting for an answer—and not, it must be said, particularly patiently. Jemma opens her mouth to give her one, but stutters and stops. Her mind has caught on first one passing thought, then another, and then yet another.

The first: she doesn’t _want_ an abortion.

The second: even if Grant will lose interest in and reject her as her pregnancy progresses, she _doesn’t want_ an abortion.

The third, which chills her to the very bone: Stutler—to say nothing of the rest of the base—is hardly likely to prioritize Jemma’s desires over Grant’s.

Following on the heels of _that_ thought is a sudden clarity. She can’t stay here. Even if there’s enough decency (or, more likely, doubt as to Grant’s wishes) present in Stutler to prevent her forcing an abortion on Jemma, the moment Grant rejects her, Jemma will be in serious danger. Levens and the rest of them have been waiting in the wings for months; without Grant’s imagined protection…

Jemma takes a deep breath and centers herself.

“Yes,” she says, and this time, her voice is perfectly normal. Not too high, not too low, not the least bit uneven. She thinks of May, coaching her on lying so long ago, and for once the memory doesn’t ache—only firms her resolve. “But I’m in the middle of an important experiment and need to get back to the lab; is Friday all right?”

She needs to leave. She knows it with a certainty that stabs at her, that fairly tears her heart in two. She’s given up everything for Grant, walked away from her team (her _family_ ) and her morals, abandoned every shred of dignity she had in exchange for whatever scraps he would hand her—she’s been _happy_ with the scraps he’s handed her—but she can’t stay.

Stutler checks her tablet. “Fine, whatever. Be here at nine and don’t eat or drink anything after midnight.”

“Understood,” Jemma says, giving Stutler her sweetest smile. “Thank you.”

With no further pleasantries, Stutler leaves, and Jemma is free to return to the lab.

She doesn’t, of course.

Instead, she goes straight to her quarters. It’s a struggle to do so casually; the terrified certainty that this has just become a horribly dangerous place for her nips at her heels, urging her to run, and her heart is racing fit to burst. It thunders in her ears, nearly drowning out the thought caught on loop:

She wants this child.

The intensity of her conviction surprises her. It’s not that being a mother has never _occurred_ to her, but it’s always been more of a theoretical possibility than a true _desire_. If she ever considered it, it was only in passing—a _maybe_ , rather than a _someday_.

Now that she’s pregnant, though, she finds she does want to be a mother. Moreover, she wants to be a mother to _this_ child— _Grant’s_ child—whether he has any interest or not.

And that means she must leave, no matter how badly she wants to stay. She can’t afford to risk any of the possibilities—that Grant’s people will force an abortion on her in the assumption that he’d wish it, that Grant will return and force an abortion on her himself, or that Grant will return and reject her and leave her vulnerable to those of his men who wish to harm her.

(There’s a brief, fleeting hope—maybe Grant _would_ be interested in this child, maybe he’d be seized by the same desire that’s taken hold of her, maybe he’d be _happy_ —that she quashes at once. She can’t indulge in that sort of fanciful thinking any longer.)

It seems to take _years_ , as slowly as she’s moving, but finally, she reaches her quarters. She unlocks the door with shaking hands that only worsen as she locks it behind her, then turns—

—and freezes, arrested by the sight of her own face in the mirror above the dresser.

She looks frantic, panicked, half-mad with her too-wide eyes and stark white face framed by the messy tendrils of hair that have escaped her collapsing ponytail. She looks like a lunatic.

“All right,” she says, closing her eyes. The sound of her voice steadies her; she lets herself catch her breath, lets herself _breathe_ instead of panic. “You’re being ridiculous. Look at this logically.”

Stutler may _assume_ that Grant would want Jemma to get an abortion, but that hardly means she’ll send guards to drag her to the infirmary should she fail to report for her appointment on Friday. More likely, she’ll just let it go. Grant is due to return on Monday; Stutler will probably just leave it be, let Grant deal with her himself.

And Grant…well, she’s being especially absurd there. Grant isn’t _abusive_. He’s never hurt her, not deliberately. The only harm he’s done her has been incidental; his cruelty is casual, thoughtless—and it’s hardly his fault he doesn’t return her feelings. Even if he doesn’t want a child, that’s no reason to think he’ll force her to give it up, not if she tells him she _does_ want it, if she promises she doesn’t expect anything and will take care of everything herself.

She shouldn’t discount the possibility _entirely_ (if Grant doesn’t want a child with his blood, with a claim to him, running around…she may be in love, but she isn’t blind; she knows he can be horridly ruthless), but if she really thinks about it, she doesn’t believe Grant will force anything on her.

No, the only real, unquestionable danger here is Levens and his lot.

“And that’s nothing new, is it?” she asks herself. “Not at all.”

If she hopes to reassure herself with that thought, though…

Whenever she’s in the lab, she keeps an ICER close at hand. It’s stashed away in her lab bench’s top drawer, well within reach and fully loaded, ready to be used, should she ever need it. Its presence is a comfort to her when Levens’ touch lingers on her shoulder and when Versum’s eyes wander for too long, but the necessity of it is an unending ache.

That ache flares up now, and it feels like a warning.

As her pregnancy progresses, she’ll be vulnerable—less able to defend herself. And the fragile, barely formed life growing within her…even if she manages to fight off an assault, the risk of miscarriage is—

“Too high,” she says—to hear it and accept it. She doesn’t know anything about pregnancy, has no statistics on miscarriage at hand, but _any_ risk is too high.

If she’s going to be a mother, she needs to get used to prioritizing her child. Her calmer, less panicked assessment changes nothing: she is still in danger and still needs to leave.

She chose Grant over everything, but—

“Enough,” she snaps at the mirror. Her reflection is looking very tragic, but she can’t tug at her own heartstrings. She can’t sway _herself_ with big, sad eyes.

This isn’t the time for dithering. She needs to leave. She doesn’t know where she’s going to _go_ , but she needs to leave.

It’s only a moment’s work to gather what she needs. Her wallet, a few changes of clothes, toiletries, and a keepsake or two are all packed into a handbag big enough to fit them all, and then she’s ready to go. She pauses to fix her ponytail and, with one last look around her quarters, departs.

As she walks to the garage, she prepares a story for the guard on duty. She’s off to the shops, just needs some fresh air after too long spent in the lab—there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?

She needn’t have bothered. The guard passes her a key to one of the cars without question, and the guards at the gate are similarly accommodating; they barely even glance at her as they wave her through.

For a moment—just a moment, the barest second as she pulls out of the underground garage—tears blur her vision.

Jemma wipes them away and keeps going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have every intention of writing Grant coming home to find Jemma gone and how he reacts, but whether it'll actually HAPPEN...it's hard to say. Regardless, I've marked this as a chapter fic in hopes it'll help me keep going.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I'm a liar--twice over, even, because this will actually have THREE chapters (if not more....*hides*) and this one isn't even a little what I suggested it would be. Sorry?
> 
> I hope you enjoy it anyway! Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review.

_Three Days Later_

If pressed, Phil would admit that he’s spent his fair share of time imagining being reunited with Simmons. He’s drawn up and discarded dozens of plans for rescue, considered all manner of underhanded deals, and even (in his most optimistic moments) dreamt of what actually ends up happening: Simmons showing up on the Playground’s doorstep one day, free and clear.

The one thing he never thought to expect, though, was that the reunion would be less than joyful.

“I’m sorry,” Simmons says, breaking the silence of his office. “I know—I know what you must think of me.” Her hands twist in her lap; once, he’d have compared her to a guilty child, but it just doesn’t fit her now. She’s never looked older. “And I know there’s no excusing what I’ve done, but—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he interrupts gently. “It wasn’t your fault, Jemma.”

She stiffens. “I told you…”

“That you weren’t a prisoner, yes,” he acknowledges as she trails off. “But—”

“But _nothing_!” Her voice cracks on the word. Phil’s heart cracks with it. “I left SHIELD and spent _months_ working for Hydra. I did horrible things—things I _knew_ were wrong…and not because I agreed with them, but because I was so—so pathetically in love that I just didn’t _care_.”

He lets that sit for a moment as she struggles to collect herself, and then leans forward to pin her with his sternest frown. His “Dad look,” as he’s not supposed to know the kids call it.

“You were kidnapped,” he says. She opens her mouth to respond, and he stops her with a look. “I’ve seen the surveillance footage. You’re never going to convince me that you left that lab willingly.”

“No,” she admits. “I didn’t. But—”

“How long after you were kidnapped did you start sleeping with Ward?” he asks. He’s proud of himself for keeping his voice neutral, but she still winces.

Her “Four days” is barely audible.

“And before that…happened,” he says, “what did you think was in store for you?”

Simmons’ brow furrows at what must seem a ridiculous question. “Torture and death, of course.”

“But the possibility of torture and death went away after you had sex?” he presses.

Her eyes go wide.

“Oh, no,” she says, shaking her head. “No, sir. I wasn’t coerced. Grant didn’t force me—I _initiated_ it.”

She’s so earnest, so quick to reaffirm her own guilt…and defend Ward, there’s no denying that aspect of it.

Phil wants to hit something.

“You were a prisoner,” he says. “After what happened to Bobbi—”

“It wasn’t like that,” she says over him, clearly frustrated. “I’m in love with Grant, I’ve been in love with him for years, and when I saw the opportunity—”

“You _had_ the opportunity.” He raises his voice a little to say it, just enough to make a point, and instantly regrets it when she cringes back. Still, at least she’s listening now. “He spent months in Vault D and you had full access to him.”

Simmons shakes her head in wordless denial.

“If this were as simple as you turning against us because you loved Ward,” he continues, “you would’ve freed him from Vault D back when he was trying to commit suicide. The only reason he survived long enough to escape was because _you_ saved his life—but you could just as easily have let him out. Why didn’t you?”

She opens and then closes her mouth, clearly at a loss. He knows she walked in here expecting to be yelled at; that much was obvious from her hunched shoulders, to say nothing of the kind of language she’s repeatedly used to describe the events of the last six months—the words ‘betrayal’ and ‘pathetic’ featured heavily. Being met with a defense of her own actions is undoubtedly the last thing she expected.

Simmons hates herself right now, and that’s all down to her warped view of what she’s been through. So while it might hurt her to hear him straighten it out, it’s far kinder than letting her live with her wholly undeserved guilt.

“You didn’t betray us, Jemma,” he says. “You were a prisoner, in imminent danger of torture, and you did what you had to do to protect yourself.” He raises a hand to silence her before she can argue that. “I’m sure being in love with him made it easier—I’m _glad_ it made it easier—but that doesn’t change the fact that you were under duress.”

“But I _haven’t_ been,” she argues. “I’ve stayed for months of my own free will, working for Grant and doing everything he asked of me just so I could be close to him! He hasn’t threatened me at all.”

“Yet by your own admission, you came back because you were in danger,” he reminds her. “Because you thought things between you and Ward were about to change.”

“I wasn’t in danger from _Grant_ ,” she snaps. “He wouldn’t have hurt me.”

“No,” he agrees—agrees that _she_ believes as much, at least. “You were in danger from his men. You thought they would hurt you, even though they haven’t before. Why is that?”

This is a part she skimmed over when she explained herself: just why she felt she was in danger after being safe for so long. Phil thinks he can fill in the blanks pretty easily, though, and the way Simmons goes stark white at the question suggests he’s on the right track.

“Is it because sleeping with Ward offered you protection from them?” he asks gently.

For a long second, Simmons is perfectly still. Then she gives one sharp shake of her head.

“No,” she says. “No, you’re—you’re attempting to rationalize what I did, sir. It’s easier to believe me a victim than capable of such betrayal, that’s all.”

Phil can’t help it. He actually laughs.

“Simmons, I would _love_ to believe you’re capable of that kind of betrayal,” he says frankly. “After the horrible things Ward’s spent months telling us he’s done to you, nothing would make me happier than to believe you’ve actually been living in safety and comfort.”

Simmons stares at him. “I…”

She stops, closes her eyes, and visibly gathers her composure. When her eyes open, they’re full of the same deliberate calm she used to show during particularly bad turbulence back in their Bus days.

“I _was_ living in safety and comfort,” she insists.

“Then why did you come back?”

He means it to be rhetorical—the final nail in the coffin of her insistence that she wasn’t in danger. He thinks that after he says it, he’ll dismiss her to think about it, give her some time to truly absorb what he’s said.

But her face shutters at the question, and he gets the sinking feeling it’s not gonna be that simple.

“Jemma?” he prompts.

Lips thin, she looks away.

“Jemma,” he repeats. “Why did you come back?”

Eyes fixed firmly on the window, she takes a shaky breath. “Because I’m pregnant.”

Phil’s heart stops.

She’s—Ward—

But there’s no time to absorb the shock. Simmons is tense in her seat, mouth tight and shoulders set like she’s bracing for a blow. The time for eruptions of anger is later—and the place, it should go without saying, is far, far away from Simmons.

Here and now, he waits until she finally meets his eyes and then says, simply, “That’s okay.”

“Is it?” she asks miserably.

“Of course it is,” he says. “I’m gonna have to do some googling on lab safety for pregnant women, and we need to establish strong boundaries early on, otherwise the whole team will be too busy lobbying for their choice of name to do any world saving—what?”

It took him a second to notice, distracted as he is imagining the chaos this announcement will cause (if Daisy isn’t arguing for a stuffed animal budget by end of day, he’ll eat one of his old ties), but Simmons is staring. He can’t read the look on her face at all.

“But of course it’s up to you,” he assures her. After so many months away, maybe she’s not ready for that kind of fuss from the team. Honestly, she was looking a little hunted already when he pulled her away from Fitz for this talk. “There’s no need to tell them if you don’t want to. Eventually it’ll be obvious, but I guess I could send you to the Cocoon?”

Simmons bursts into tears.

“Or not!” he says hastily. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to! I could always have a word with the team, tell them to keep it under control, or…anything you want. Really. Tell them, don’t tell them, change your name and move to Timbuktu…”

All he’s doing is making her cry _harder_. He feels like an absolute heel.

If this were seven months ago, he’d leave his seat, round the desk, and hug her. Phil’s always prided himself on not being the kind of guy who flails uselessly at the sight of a crying woman; he’s a human being with emotions of his own and is perfectly capable of offering comfort.

Now, though…even while she’s sobbing into her hands, her body language is totally closed off. She couldn’t communicate “keep away” more clearly if she tattooed it on her knuckles. He doesn’t dare touch her at all.

“I’m sorry,” he says helplessly.

Simmons shakes her head.

“No,” she says, sniffling a little. “No, that’s…” Her voice breaks. “I just need a moment.”

“Of course,” Phil says. “Take all the time you need.”

It breaks his heart to just sit here and watch her cry, though, so he’s thankful when it turns out she really does only need a minute or two to collect herself. Then she swipes one sleeve over her cheeks, brushing away all evidence of tears, and graces him with a small smile.

“I’m all right, sir,” she says. “I’m sorry for falling apart like that.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says…possibly a little more fiercely than he means to, judging by the way she blinks, but he can’t help it.

She just went from a sobbing fit to perfect composure in less than five minutes. It was meant to reassure him, he knows, but all he can think about is how much practice she’s had hiding her misery and fear at Hydra.

Phil’s never been a violent man, but he’s giving serious thought to murder right now.

“Yes, I do,” she disagrees. “You were being perfectly lovely and I just…” She sighs. “It wasn’t you, really.”

“What was it, then?” he asks, because he kinda gets the feeling she wants him to—wants an opening to explain herself, not that she needs to do _that_. After everything she’s been through, Simmons, of all people, deserves to be able to cry without justifying herself.

“When the doctor confirmed that I was pregnant,” she starts…and then stops, making a tiny noise of frustration. “At Hydra, it was assumed I would want an abortion—or rather, that _Grant_ would want me to have an abortion, and I would of course go along with his wishes.”

“Of course,” Phil echoes numbly.

“I suppose part of me was expecting to receive the same reaction here.” She gives him a sheepish sort of smile, an I’m-so-silly kind of look like it’s not supposed to break his heart that she’s so damaged by her time with Ward that she thought he’d give her any orders at all regarding her own pregnancy. “When you were so kind instead…everything just caught up to me at once, I suppose.”

“Totally understandable,” he says, because he has to say _something_. Because her body language is still screaming at him to keep to his side of the desk, no matter how many heartbreaking things she says.

“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to announce it to all the team at once,” she says. There’s an edge of determined calm to her voice that rings false, but Phil’s not about to call her on it. “Just so there are no misunderstandings, or…anything else.”

If he had to guess, he’d say Simmons is still expecting a negative reaction from _someone_ , if not everyone, and wants to get them all out of the way at once. Still, if it’s easier for her to only say it once, he’s not gonna deny her that.

(Or anything at all, probably. If Daisy really does demand a stuffed animal budget, he already knows he’s gonna cave.)

“Whatever you want,” he agrees. “Do you want to do it now or wait a few days, until you’re settled?”

“I think now would be better,” she says. “Like…ripping off a plaster, don’t you think?”

“If that’s what you want…?”

Simmons nods determinedly. “It is.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he says.

And if he happens to find the time for a quiet word with Hunter after, maybe get him back on track with chasing Ward…well, that’s just good management.

 

 

+++

 

 

It’s a relief when Jemma can finally escape to her room.

She feels horridly guilty for thinking it—for even phrasing it as an _escape_ —but there it is. Everyone’s been so kind, so _understanding_ , and being greeted with hugs and glee when she was bracing herself for derision, when she more than half expected to be chucked into Vault D and left to rot as a traitor…

It’s overwhelming.

And it’s not as though she _wants_ to be imprisoned or hated. It’s just that no matter how hard she tries, she can’t seem to convince the others of the truth. They’re all so _certain_ that she was a victim, that she’s been suffering at Grant’s hands, that they twist every word she says to support it. Even Bobbi and Hunter, who she was positive would hate her more than anyone, have had nothing but kind words and reassurance.

Not even breaking the news of her pregnancy changed their minds. Quite the opposite, in fact; it only seemed to firm their convictions—both that Jemma is to be celebrated _and_ that Grant is nothing short of evil.

Perhaps if she told them how it breaks her heart to hear Grant insulted so, she’d finally sway them, but…it _is_ nice to be smiled at again. (To say nothing of being hugged and asked after and reminded every five minutes how much she’s been missed.) As the day has progressed, Jemma’s found herself fighting their mistaken impressions less and less, guiltily enjoying instead the way they’ve all so firmly sided with her.

They’ve chosen their good impressions of her over the actual reality of the situation. It’s so much the opposite of what she experienced at Hydra, it rather makes her want to cry.

The temptation to let their version of events stand is almost as overwhelming as the fact of their love for her, and so it is that it’s a relief when she can retreat—to put thoughts of such deception behind her and finally relax.

Entering her room—her old bunk, just as she left it, Coulson promised with a fatherly smile—is its own kind of blow, however. It really is _exactly_ as she left it.

Her clothes are in the drawers. Her books are on the night table. Even her tablet, discarded in the middle of her half-made bed.

All these valuable resources left abandoned, even though SHIELD is still strapped for cash…it was foolish of the team, really. Foolish and impractical and so bloody _them_ that she has to spend a good three minutes taking slow, deep breaths in order to fight off (more) tears.

Still, as she goes through her nightly ritual (sadly involving a trip down the corridor; the Playground isn’t as well-appointed as Nemesis base and doesn’t offer en suite bathrooms), she finds that her tension—tension she’s never been able to set aside before—is stripped away just as easily as her clothes.

Perhaps it’s the solitude—she’s rather out of practice at spending all day in conversation—or perhaps it’s the security. She checks the lock on her door as a matter of habit, but…

She doesn’t need it. She can _trust_ the others in a way she couldn’t Grant’s people.

The thought lingers, remaining in the front of her mind as she changes into her pajamas (and they are _hers_ , the cheerfully patterned cotton ones she chose and purchased herself, not the cheap, ugly ones whichever of Grant’s people he sent out to buy her clothes when she transitioned from prisoner to employee chose).

This is for the best, she’s sure. It’s not just the need to protect herself during her pregnancy, it’s what comes after. She loves Grant, but his people…

She doesn’t want her child growing up surrounded by the likes of Levens and Versum, or even Zaytsev. Coulson, May, Fitz, and Skye (no, Daisy, she’s Daisy now) will be much better influences.

No one in Hydra loves her. _Everyone_ here does.

This is where she belongs. This is where her _child_ belongs. The knowledge that she’ll never see Grant again tears at her, but she can’t afford to be selfish any longer. She must let go of her feelings for Grant—which, as Coulson reminded her earlier, she’s done once before.

She survived his imprisonment in Vault D, kept her distance even as her heart was shattering over his suicide attempts. She can learn to live without him now.

It’s on that cheerful note that she tucks herself into bed…

…and on a much guiltier one that, twenty minutes later, she gets up to exchange her pajama top for the one shirt of Grant’s she brought with her as a keepsake from Hydra.

“Moving on is a process,” she reassures herself as she climbs back into bed.

Surrounded by Grant’s scent, it’s easier to pretend she’s in his arms. Sleep comes swiftly.

 

 

+++

 

 

Her awakening is much more abrupt and far less pleasant. Alarms are blaring outside her door, and the lights are flickering orange in a pattern she remembers (after a few seconds) to mean _drop everything and report to Coulson immediately_.

This particular pattern has more than once resulted in briefings held with everyone in pajamas, and she’s sure there’s about to be another. In theory, she could roll out of bed and make straight for Coulson’s office as she is.

In practice, it would probably be spectacularly unwise to show up to a briefing wearing one of Grant’s shirts, so she spares a moment to swap it for a camisole.

 _Then_ she runs for Coulson’s office, where she finds a grim silence hanging over the team.

“Jemma!” Skye crosses the room to hug her at once. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, a little confused. The hug is nice, though, even if does go on a little longer than she’d expect. “What’s going on?”

Coulson is right behind Skye—Daisy, damn it—though he limits himself to a hand on her shoulder. “I promise you, Simmons, we are _not_ going to buckle to any demands.”

…What?

“Damn right,” Fitz mutters. He’s hanging back, but not so far she can’t see the way he’s near shaking with rage.

“Absolutely not,” Bobbi agrees. The look she gives Jemma suggests that she’d rather like to hug her as well (if not drag her back to the infirmary for another check-up; she insisted on no less than three over the course of yesterday afternoon), but she’s busy keeping Hunter’s mouth covered with one hand.

What on _earth_ is going on?

Jemma looks to May for answers and finds her looking at the mission screen that takes up the right-hand wall of Coulson’s office. Or, rather, _glaring_ at it—so hard that Jemma’s almost surprised it hasn’t burst into flames.

…Which is a thought that becomes darkly humorous when Jemma detaches herself from Skye and moves further into the room, because _flames_ prove to be exactly what the screen is displaying.

Namely, the screen is showing video of some urban street, upon which the words GIVE HER BACK are burning in letters that must be at least ten feet long. Broken glass and debris are scattered around them, suggesting some manner of damage to the surrounding buildings.

Her first thought is that it reminds her of the mission in Norway, of the message WE ARE GODS left by Norse paganists in a street in Oslo. Her second thought is to wonder where precisely this message was left, and several similar thoughts follow.

It takes her at least a full minute to realize what the _others_ are thinking.

“Wait,” she says, looking between Coulson and May. It would explain the anger simmering like a physical presence around the room, but… “You don’t seriously think that I’m the _her_ in question?”

In answer, Coulson clicks the remote that controls the screen, changing the video. This one is of the fires being _set_ , and Jemma can pick out several familiar faces: Ortilla, Hicks, Aldridge…

For a moment, Jemma’s heart leaps. To go to such _trouble_ —

No. No, she knows better than to get her hopes up like that. Grant _doesn’t care_. Obviously, this is about something—someone—else.

“Just because Hydra is behind this doesn’t mean it’s about me,” she points out reasonably. “Have you taken any prisoners lately?”

The pitying looks she gets in response sting a bit.

“Grant has never cared about me,” she reminds them all, somewhat sharply. “I was a tool with which to hurt the rest of you and a convenient form of release, nothing more. I highly doubt he’s broken-hearted at my departure and, even if he were, he must know you’d never send me back. This must be about someone else.”

Skye is inching closer—perhaps aiming for another hug—but stops at Coulson’s raised hand.

“Give us the room,” he orders the others.

Fitz narrows his eyes. “You’re not seriously considering—”

“Of course not.” Coulson actually sounds impatient. “But this is a delicate topic, and I think it’s a conversation better had without so many enraged spectators.”

Hunter’s response is muffled (Bobbi’s still covering his mouth), but would likely prove Coulson’s point, were it audible.

May gives Coulson a long look, then transfers it to the rest of the room. “You heard him.”

It takes a moment or two (Skye manages to get another hug in, along with a muttered threat towards Grant’s manhood that Jemma pretends not to hear), but one by one, the others shuffle out. May pauses to touch Jemma’s elbow.

“You all right?” she asks.

In all honesty, she’s not. What she _is_ is warmed by May’s concern, and she’s able to muster up a sincere smile for her.

“Perfectly fine,” she lies, and May nods and leaves.

“Let’s have a seat,” Coulson suggests.

On the screen behind him, Aldridge is using the butt of her rifle to break a car window. Jemma’s happy to turn her back on it.

“All right,” she says, and takes one of the chairs in front of his desk. Just yesterday, she sat exactly here and tried to convince him that she loved Grant, that she was not victim but traitor. Coulson was adamant that Grant had manipulated and hurt her, no matter how she tried to make him understand the truth. Even when she disclosed her pregnancy (and made an absolute fool of herself), he was nothing but kind and supportive.

She wonders what he’s thinking today.

“Was anyone hurt?” she asks—partially because she does care, but mostly, if she’s honest, to break the silence.

“No,” Coulson says behind her. “Just property damage.”

Good. That’s good.

Although why Grant would send three of his best specialists to cause _property damage_ …

He wanted them recognized. It’s the only explanation. He wanted to ensure that—that whoever the message was for knew it was from him.

“Grant doesn’t care about me,” she says again. She doesn’t truly mean to; it just…slips out. “This isn’t about me.”

Coulson hums thoughtfully and, rather than rounding his desk, sits in the chair next to hers.

“This happened in Sheffield,” he says.

Oh.

Oh, that’s…

“A coincidence,” she says, as much to herself as to Coulson. “There’s no reason Grant should even _remember_ that my parents live in Sheffield. He doesn’t—”

“Doesn’t care about you,” Coulson completes. “I know.”

There’s no reason his implied agreement should hurt, not when she already knows she’s right.

It does anyway.

“But feelings aren’t the only thing on the line anymore,” he continues, face deadly serious. “Is there any way he could’ve found out that you’re pregnant?”

“Oh.” Jemma can’t believe she didn’t think of that. “Well, yes. It was one of his doctors who confirmed it. You think he wants…?”

Wants a child. Wants a child with _her_.

Hope wells up within her once more, and once more she forces it down. Grant doesn’t care about her. She _knows_ he doesn’t care about her. Even if he wants this child, it doesn’t change anything of her situation.

She’s spent months as a convenient bed partner to him. All this child (if indeed it’s their child he wants) makes her is a convenient womb, as well.

Tears sting at her eyes. She blinks them away.

“I think it’s a possibility,” Coulson says gently. “Which is why, as much as I hate to, I have to ask you to promise not to go anywhere.”

Jemma stares at him. “…What?”

“Jemma.” He leans forward to still her twisting hands with his real one. “Ward manipulated you. None of what happened was your fault, and I’m proud of you for being able to walk away after the way he conditioned you.”

“He didn’t—”

“But,” Coulson continues, “I know it wasn’t easy. And I know this display might tempt you into thinking that you can or should go back. So I need you to promise me that you won’t—that you’ll keep in mind all the reasons you left in the first place.”

It’s a valid concern, she must admit. Part of her _is_ tempted—more so than she could ever say—to run straight back to Nemesis base. Sending out three of his favorites to cause chaos, to make a _spectacle_ …part of her insists that it must mean, after everything, that Grant does care.

But it’s the same part that kept her at Hydra for so long, hurting herself with her hope.

“It might not be about me,” she says, rather more softly than she means to.

“But if it is,” Coulson presses.

If it is…if Grant has truly arranged this spectacle on her account, if he’s really demanding _her_ return…

It doesn’t matter.

The conclusion she reached last night remains as true as ever: even putting aside the threat to her safety, Hydra is no place to raise a child. Here at the Playground, she is valued and loved—and her child will be, too.

She’s going to be a mother. She can’t be selfish anymore. For all that she’s spent months betraying every single moral she had in exchange for scraps of his attention…she can’t let her love for Grant outstrip her responsibility to her fragile, vulnerable child.

Her throat is burning with tears. The cause of the stabbing pain in her chest is far less quantifiable.

Regardless, it doesn’t change her answer.

“I promise,” she whispers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a combination Valentine's Day and sorry-you-have-to-be-the-boss gift for JD, who is my favorite JD of all the JDs, because I love her lots. I hope you enjoy! <3

_Two Days Earlier_

“Hold it.”

It takes everything Luis’ got to check his reflexive response to the arm that clotheslines him outta nowhere, but since that reflex is violence and the arm in question belongs to the scariest motherfucker he knows—aka his _boss_ —he figures it’s worth the effort.

“See something, sir?” he asks. He tries to be casual about lowering his gun, hoping Ward didn’t notice how close he came to getting a rifle to the face…and he just might’ve lucked out, because Ward’s not even looking at him.

“That weapon,” Ward says, his eyes locked on the large but vaguely gun-shaped thing Luis was headed for before his interruption, “it’s Chitauri.”

“…And?” Luis prompts after a second. “We are _here_ for alien tech, right?”

“Sure,” Ward agrees. “But the last time I saw a Chitauri artifact, it was carrying an alien virus that killed three people before SHIELD found a cure. So we’re gonna play it safe on this one.”

Oh, shit. “Copy that.”

“Come on,” Ward says, jerking his head at the door, and Luis follows him out with no hesitation. Last thing he wants is to touch the wrong thing and end up with an alien plague.

(That gun’s just sitting right out on a table, no warning signs or nothing, so he’s guessing these morons whose base they just took didn’t know about the virus thing, either. No telling what’s been contaminated; he could catch something just leaning against the wrong shelf. Ugh.)

“So…we just skipping this lab, then?” he asks on the way out the door.

“Not quite.” Ward motions to a nearby grunt. “You. This room’s on lockdown, you hear me? Nobody goes in until I say otherwise.”

“Sir!” the grunt agrees, springing forward to guard the door. “Yes sir! Hail Hydra!”

“Uh huh,” Ward says wryly, and continues down the hall.

Luis follows, hoping for a little more in the way of detailed instructions. Ward’s never shy about giving orders, but sometimes he seems to forget that not _all_ of Alpha team can read his mind the way Markham can.

Luckily, Ward only waits until he catches up to keep talking.

“I want that weapon,” he says, “but no one’s going in that lab until we have the cure for the virus ready and waiting. No reason to risk exposure before we’ve got a solution handy.”

Makes sense. “You want me to call Repin, get her digging through the SHIELD dump for intel on the virus?”

“No need,” Ward says with a weird little smile. “Jemma’s the one who cured it.”

Luis very nearly misses a step. The only Jemma he knows of is Jemma Simmons, the quiet little scientist Ward’s sleeping with; he had no idea she was former SHIELD, let alone the kind of SHIELD that used to cure alien viruses.

“Jemma?” he asks, wondering if there’s more than one—and even if there’s not, probably better not to sound too familiar with Ward’s girl. (Especially considering some of the rumors he’s heard about her.)

“Simmons,” Ward clarifies. “Works in Lab 3 at Nemesis.”

“Got it,” Luis says. “You want me to have her sent over?”

“Yeah.” He pauses to frown at a section of the cinderblock wall, where a sloppy paint job is failing to cover up the old SHIELD logo, then keeps moving. “And tell Evie to warn her it’s Chitauri shit.”

“Warn her?” Luis echoes curiously. Sure, Simmons has always struck him as a little jumpy, but science is literally her _job_. A warning seems kinda out of place.

Ward nods, but doesn’t explain. Instead, he adds, “Have ’em send a biohazard team, too—just in case it’s a different virus or something. I’m not in the mood to jump from any planes today.”

Well, now Luis is just lost. “What?”

“Long story,” Ward dismisses. “Just get them here.”

“Yes, sir.” Maybe he can corner Simmons later, get some answers from her. “Consider it done.”

He fires off a quick text to Evie…and just in time, too, because he’s no sooner hit _send_ than a bunch of the original occupants of the base charge them in some kind of dumbass last stand. He and Ward wipe them out, no problem, but his phone takes a bullet in the melee and dies a tragic death.

“Shit,” he says, and takes a second to kick the corpse of the asshole who shot it.

Then it’s back to work.

 

 

+++

 

 

The point of this excursion was alien tech, but Grant’s gotta admit, the stockpile of human weapons isn’t too shabby. All his questions about the fight Vogel’s people put up are answered the second he sees the base armory.

Ortilla’s low whistle captures his own feelings perfectly. “Damn. Sir, I’m just warnin’ you now: you’re gonna have to drag me outta here.”

“You still can’t have a grenade launcher, Ortilla,” he says, amused, and has to smile at the genuine disappointment that crosses the guy’s face.

“Maaaaan,” he sighs.

“Live with it,” Grant advises, and crouches to examine the contents of a tightly sealed plastic box. Ammunition, it looks like—but the heavy-hitting kind. He can have some fun with this.

Ortilla mutters desolately in Spanish, but moves to start cataloging the armory without distinct complaint. It’s good enough for Grant.

Twenty minutes into their inventory, they’re interrupted by the appearance of an unusually frazzled-looking Markham, who barely bothers to give Grant a respectful nod before demanding of Ortilla, “Where the hell’s your phone?”

“KIA yesterday,” Ortilla says slowly. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Evie’s been trying to reach you,” Markham says, and his tone is dire enough to have Grant straightening.

“What’s going on?” he asks. _His_ phone’s fine, and he hasn’t heard a peep from Evie all week.

Markham grimaces, then jerks his head at Ortilla. “Get lost.”

“Gone,” Ortilla says, and scampers.

Grant’s not gonna lie, he’s getting a little worried here. Markham tends to range from quiet to stoic; he’s never seen him this worked up. Whatever had Evie trying to reach Ortilla—Ortilla but not Grant, and Markham when she gave up on Ortilla—must be big.

“Well?” he prompts.

Markham takes a second to—hell, Grant doesn’t know. Center himself or _something_. Whatever he does, the end result is that he’s back to his usual calm when he speaks.

“You ordered Evie to send Simmons here,” he says.

“Yeah,” Grant says slowly. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes,” Markham says, tone easy but shoulders tense. “Because Simmons is gone.”

…What the fuck.

“What do you mean, _gone_?” he demands.

“Evie looked into it when she didn’t answer her phone. Turns out she left Nemesis the day before yesterday and never came back—and left the fleet car she checked out at a bus station.”

Fuck. Of all the times—

Wait.

“What else?” he demands. He’s always known Jemma’s days with him were numbered—that she’s head over heels for him has kept her around this long, but her conscience was always gonna catch up with her—and it can’t be the simple fact of her leaving that had Markham visibly unsettled. “And why didn’t Evie just call me herself?”

Markham hesitates. Grant’s heartbeat kicks up a notch.

“Evie wanted to have an answer for you if you asked why Simmons took off,” Markham says eventually. “So she retraced her steps. Found out she made a visit to the infirmary right before leaving.” He meets Grant’s eyes evenly. “She’s pregnant.”

It’s funny. Just yesterday he was joking about jumping out of planes, and now here he is with a roar in his ears like the wind at 40,000 feet.

“She’s _what_ ,” he manages.

“Pregnant,” Markham repeats.

The world swims around Grant for a second, the ground beneath his feet gone soft and unsteady.

Pregnant. Jemma’s _pregnant_. He’s gonna be a father—

—and Jemma just ran off with his kid.

Fuck.

“Where did she go?” he demands.

Markham shakes his head. “We don’t know. No cameras in the bus station, and GFR hasn’t picked her up yet.”

GFR is Repin’s brainchild, a hack of every network-connecting security camera on the planet, paired with top-of-the-line facial rec software. It takes a lot of skill to avoid, and Jemma doesn’t—or _shouldn’t_ —even know it exists. Which leaves…

“SHIELD.” Goddamnit, if they have her…if she went running back to the team, to _Fitz_ …

Markham’s cough pulls him out of the furious, violent musings he’s wandered into.

“Your orders, sir?” he prompts.

Grant breathes in nice and slow, tucks away all of his rage and the underlying dizziness (she’s _pregnant_ ), and forces himself to think tactically.

As soon as he does, he realizes there’s something missing here—some connection, some piece to the puzzle. Jemma’s desperately in love with him; he’d expect her to be overjoyed that he knocked her up. She should be hanging around Nemesis picking out wallpaper for a nursery or researching the best way for pregnant women to stay healthy or something, not running back to SHIELD.

Maybe she was scared of his reaction, but—no. No, she’d wanna tell him. She’d need to _see_ how he took it.

Which means something else spooked her, and Grant needs to know what.

“Leave a team to deal with this,” he orders, and turns on his heel. “We’re going back to Nemesis.”

 

 

+++

 

 

The first thing Grant does when they get back to base is order the doctor Jemma met with to be in his office in five minutes.

The second thing he does is swing by Jemma’s quarters.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting—a note? Some kind of goodbye or explanation?—but whatever it is, he doesn’t find it. Her shampoo and toothbrush are missing from the bathroom, but other than that…

Looking at her quarters, he’d never guess she didn’t intend to come back. All of her clothes, her books, even a stack of unread science journals on her nightstand have been left behind. Nothing jumps out at him as proof she was planning to leave.

And that, he concludes as he pokes through her dresser, is because she _wasn’t_ planning it. Oh, she might’ve meant to leave permanently—the missing toothbrush suggests as much—but if so, it was a spur of the moment decision.

That’s not like her at all.

It only proves what he already suspected: something spooked her and sent her running. Hopefully her doctor’ll help him nail down just what that something was.

 

 

+++

 

 

Her doctor is Stutler, a pretty thirty-something woman who’s understandably flustered to be summoned to his office without warning. Any other day, he’d be amused by her attempts to ask what he wants without sounding like she’s questioning him; right now, he’s just annoyed by the delay.

“Jemma Simmons,” he says, cutting right through her awkward stammering. “She had an appointment with you two days ago.”

Something flits over Stutler’s face, there and gone before he can read it.

“Yes, sir,” she confirms. “Is…something wrong, sir?”

“Tell me about it,” he orders.

“Okay. Um.” Stutler smooths out her skirt, fidgeting with the hem a little. “Dr. Simmons came to me complaining of nausea and fatigue. Um, I—she said she was sexually active, so I thought she might be pregnant.”

“And she is,” Grant says, mostly to prompt her along.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, she’s about two months pregnant. Sir.”

It’s like pulling teeth, for god’s sake. “And how did she take that?”

“Oh!” Stutler exclaims, starting a little. “Sorry, Director. She—well, she was upset, sir. She asked about abortion—”

The word punches right through him, piercing his skin like a literal bullet, and emotion rushes in to fill the hole. For a few seconds, he’s actually lightheaded with fury.

Stutler doesn’t seem to notice.

“—and how soon we could make it happen. We scheduled it for this morning, sir, but she never showed.”

“I see,” he says, once he’s sure he can do it calmly. “And was that it?”

“Yes, sir,” Stutler says. “That was it.”

He sits back in his chair, chewing that over for a minute, then waves her off. “You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Stutler scurries out, broadcasting guilt so loudly she might as well be screaming it, and Grant doesn’t even wait for the door to close behind her before he reaches for his laptop. Every room in this base is under constant surveillance; it’s only a few seconds’ work to pull up the archived footage of Jemma’s appointment.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t quite mesh with Stutler’s version of events.

 _“But I assume we’re just gonna skip ahead to elimination?”_ Stutler asks, and Grant’s blood is boiling long before he sees the way Jemma automatically covers her stomach.

 _“Excuse me?”_  Jemma says, voice tremulous.

 _“This was an accident, right?”_ Stutler asks, so smug she could choke—or _be_ choked, more like—on it. _“I figured you’d wanna get rid of it before the Director got back.”_

And that—that’s what does it. Even from the not entirely helpful angle, Grant can read Jemma’s face, can see each and every thought pass over it. He can clock the exact _second_ that she resolves to leave.

He still doesn’t know _why_ —what made her think he’d let anyone get away with _eliminating_ their child? How could she not know he’d kill anyone who tried?—but he knows this is what did it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. She was terrified; it’s written all over her. And whatever made her think she had reason to be…

It wasn’t a whim. She left because she thought she had to—because she didn’t think she had a choice.

Which means she won’t be coming back on her own.

She’s gonna need a push.

“Evie,” he shouts, trusting his assistant to be hovering just outside—and sure enough, the door opens within the second.

“Yes, Director?” she asks. She doesn’t even make a face at him over the yelling; she’s sharp enough to know he wouldn’t take it well, not right now.

“Have Stutler thrown in the dungeon,” he orders. He’ll deal with her—her lying _and_ her scaring off Jemma—later. “And get me Alpha team. I’ve got an op for them.”

Jemma might be running scared, but she’s still the woman who loved him enough to abandon all her morals and help him achieve world domination in exchange for a little attention. A nice public display of his affection for her should be just the thing to draw her home.

And if not…well, Coulson’s a bleeding heart who gets way too attached to his subordinates, but he’s also a certified white hat. Enough destruction, and he’ll have no choice but to hand Jemma over.

Failing _that_ , Grant is ready and willing to burn SHIELD to the ground to get to the mother of his child—but he’ll try the easy way first.

One way or another, he’ll get her back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! Another chapter! And the next (which will probably be the last, unless I get further inspired...it's been known to happen) is like 99% done, so hopefully this fic will be complete soon and I can move on with my life.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant’s phone is ringing.

“Goddamnit.”

His internal clock tells him he’s been asleep for all of forty-five minutes, which makes it about four am. Way too fucking early for a phone call, in other words. He pushes himself up on one elbow and gropes for his phone without opening his eyes, hoping vaguely—and probably fruitlessly—that this’ll be an easy conversation and he’ll be able to get back to sleep in just a few seconds.

Unfortunately, as much as he’d like to kill someone over waking him up, the truth is that being the head of an international terrorist organization means sometimes needing to deal with urgent situations at inconvenient hours—and as every wise ruler knows, all killing the messenger gets you is fewer people willing to deliver messages.

So he makes sure his voice is even and not at all threatening when he answers the phone with a simple, “Yeah.”

A second later, he’s glad he went to the effort.

“What are you doing?”

“Jemma!” he says, delighted, and sits up. He’s been waiting for this call. “How are you? How’s SHIELD treating you?”

“What are you doing?” she repeats. She’s trying to sound angry, if he’s any judge, but mostly she just sounds exhausted.

He hopes she’s taking care of herself.

“Well, I _was_ sleeping,” he teases, “and now I’m talking to you. What are _you_ doing?”

“Stop,” she says, and there’s a strain to her voice he doesn’t like. “Grant. Please.”

All right. It’s not the time for teasing. Which he knew, honestly, but sue him if he’s excited to _finally_ hear from her. It’s been weeks.

“I was trying to get your attention,” he says.

“You…what?”

“Is that a surprise?” he asks, surprised himself. He left a message in _fire_ on the streets of her hometown; exactly how much clearer could he be?

“I…” Jemma starts, only to trail off. Apparently it really is. She’s tough, though; it only takes her a second to rally. “You killed _twenty-three_ people tonight to _get my attention_?”

Her voice is rising by the end of it, which is honestly kind of a trip. She’s never actually _shouted_ at him before—not even that time he tore his stitches twice in the same day. She must really be pissed.

(That or just heartbroken. She’s always been the overly moral type, all bleeding heart sympathy for every passing stranger. Those deaths—and really? Only twenty-three? He’s almost disappointed—have gotta be weighing heavy on her conscience.)

For a second he considers downplaying it, trying to smooth things over…but no. She knew exactly who she was getting into bed with; it’d be insulting to both of them to pretend otherwise.

“Behold my success,” he says instead.

She’s quiet for a minute, and Grant waits her out. He wonders what she’s thinking. She’s upset, sure, but he bets she’s guiltily pleased, too. He’s seen how happy he can make her with just a little bit of his attention; part of her has gotta be at least a little excited that the global chaos he’s spent the last two weeks wreaking was all for her.

“All right,” she says finally. “You have my attention. What do you _want_?”

“What do you think?” he asks. “I want you to come back.”

That earns him a sharp intake of breath and not much else.

“Jemma?” he prompts.

“You know about the baby,” she says, a little tremor to her voice, “don’t you.”

“I do,” he confirms.

“Then you know that I _can’t_ come back.”

Okay. Not the answer he was hoping for, but it’s not unexpected. She left in the first place, after all. But he’s still got some questions about that—and in any case, he needs to know exactly what she’s thinking.

So he asks, “Why not?”

“Because it’s not safe,” she says immediately.

Not safe?

“You mean because that bitch doctor tried to push an abortion on you?” he asks. “You don’t need to worry about _her_ , sweetheart.”

He’s playing dirty with the endearment, he knows; he can hear her breathing stutter over it. Good. Any other circumstances, he probably would’ve made her year with that—but she’s being strangely resistant here, so there’s no telling how far it will or won’t go.

“No,” she says. Not far enough, then. Damn. “It’s not Stutler. It’s—Hydra is no place to raise a child.”

There’s a weird quality to her voice; he puzzles over it for a second, and then decides it’s a lack of conviction. She’s trying to convince herself as much as him.

She _wants_ to come back, he realizes. (Of course she does. She’s been helplessly in love with him for years _and_ she’s pregnant with his kid; no way she wants to be anywhere else right now.) It’s just that she’s convinced herself she shouldn’t.

Okay. He sees what happened here.

Fear drove her to leave, and once she was gone—no doubt welcomed immediately back into the team’s graces—her conscience kicked back into high gear. Without the promise of his time and attention to distract her, all those little doubts and regrets she’s spent the last six months ignoring finally had their say, and now she’s drowning in guilt and has steeled herself to ignore her wants in favor of doing the ‘right thing.’

It’s annoying, but workable. She chose him over her conscience once already; he just has to convince her to do it again.

“And SHIELD is?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says, faster than he likes. She’s sure on that score, then—that’ll make this harder. “The Playground is a perfectly safe environment—”

“—As long as it doesn’t get invaded again,” he interjects.

She ignores him. Rude. “—full of people who will love and protect this child like it’s their own.”

“And you think my people wouldn’t?” he asks. “Jemma. You have to know I’d kill anyone who even _thought_ about hurting our kid.”

“That’s not enough,” she says quietly…but not quietly enough to hide that she’s near tears. “I’m sorry.”

Shit. “Jemma—”

“I’m not coming back,” she says, all in a rush, like she’s suddenly on a time limit. “Not ever. So you can stop all this public destruction now; it’s not working.”

“Sweetheart,” he tries.

The line goes dead.

“Fuck,” he says, dropping his head back in exasperation.

So much for the easy way.

Still, if she thinks he’s just gonna quit, she really doesn’t know him at all. _Stopping_ the public destruction is the last thing on his mind. In fact…yeah.

It’s time to step it up a notch.

 

 

+++

 

 

“Simmons.”

Jemma startles and (for the first time in what must be hours) tears her eyes away from the observation window.

“Mack!” she says. “Welcome back.”

“I think that’s supposed to be my line,” he says, and gives her a quick, one-armed hug. “It’s good to see you.”

“You, too,” she says. She means to add something else—ask about the progress of the situation at the Cocoon (whatever the situation is; all she knows is that Mack has been stationed there for months, dealing with _something_ , and that’s why he hasn’t been around), comment on his rather nice leather jacket, anything—but her eyes are drawn unerringly back to the window, and it kills her voice in her throat.

Mack must have followed her gaze; his voice is low and worried when he asks, “How’s it going?”

“It’s…going,” she says. “Hard to say beyond that, really.”

She should know more than she does. She’s certain she was _told_ more, at the very least, and for all that Coulson was finally forced during her absence to hire a _real_ surgeon, she spent long enough acting as one to have figured out exactly what’s happening with Daisy’s surgery.

But ever since the call informing them that Daisy had been shot—shot _six times_ by a Hydra agent, one of Grant’s people, an agent who was only involved in attacking a random civilian bank because Grant is using violence to _get Jemma’s attention_ —she hasn’t been able to concentrate. Her mind slides in and out of focus like a broken camera, unwilling to narrow in on one thing.

“I heard,” Mack starts, and then hesitates.

“Heard what?” she asks without looking away from the surgery in process.

It’s just as well she wasn’t called upon to perform it. She’s shaking far too hard to have been of any use.

“Ward didn’t hurt you?” Mack asks.

It startles her, enough to spur her into actually turning to face him. In the three weeks since she returned from Hydra, none of the others has been willing to admit as much; they all continue to insist that Grant manipulated and raped her, and nothing she’s said has been able to change their minds. She’s actually given up on trying—the topic only upsets everyone, herself included.

“No,” she says slowly. “The others are quite sure he did, but no.”

He nods. “Because you, uh…”

“Because I love him,” she finishes. “Yes.”

“And all of this—” He glances towards the observation window, to Daisy clinging desperately to life— “It’s for you? Ward throwing a tantrum because he wants you back?”

To be precise, he wants their _child_ , but Jemma can’t bring herself to correct the impression. “Yes.”

“So why are you still here?”

The answer—for her child’s sake—springs immediately to her lips, but she bites it back. It may have been her original reason, but…ever since her call to Grant (made at a desperate hour when she couldn’t sleep for the images she saw every time she closed her eyes, images of the sheer devastation he wrought in Chicago), she’s been questioning her motives.

“Honestly,” she murmurs, “I’ve been wondering myself.”

She spent weeks telling herself that she couldn’t be selfish anymore—that she must prioritize her child over her own wants. And Hydra would have been dangerous, yes, with Levens and his ilk waiting in the wings, a constantly threatening presence…but Grant said that he’d kill anyone who ever even _thought_ of harming their child. All it would take would be one word, and Levens—and Versum and whoever else she pointed out—would be dead.

Hydra would be safe…and she saw Grant with Kara. She knows he’s fully capable of being loving—and just look at the lengths he’s going to in order to get this child back! Clearly he _wants_ it. He would be a good father; she’s positive of that. So she’s not protecting her child by remaining at SHIELD—not unless her child needs protecting from a loving father who would kill to keep it safe.

And people—innocent people—are _dying_ for her refusal to return to Grant’s side. _Daisy_ may well die.

So why is she still here? Because it’s their child and not _her_ that Grant wants? Because she doesn’t want to be nothing but a convenient womb to him?

That’s selfish. It’s _horrifically_ selfish. To have the means of stopping these attacks, but to refuse simply because Grant doesn’t want her back for the right _reasons_?

“Coulson made me promise not to go back,” she says to herself as much as to Mack.

He shifts uneasily in place.

“Look,” he says. “I know our line should be that SHIELD doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, and if he was a threat to you—if he was gonna hurt you—I’d be behind that a hundred percent. But you love him and he’s pulling all this shit because of you, so I really don’t get why we’re not at least _talking_ about you going back. Hell, I don’t get why you left in the first place.”

…Oh.

He doesn’t know, she realizes. He’s heard that Grant wasn’t violent towards her, but not that she’s pregnant.

She’s glad, she decides. If he knew, he never would have brought this up—just as none of the others have brought it up. Undoubtedly they _would_ be talking about sending her back to Hydra if not for the baby.

And they _should_ be talking about it.

It’s one thing to prioritize her baby’s safety and happiness over her desire to be with Grant. It’s quite another to prioritize her own hurt feelings over the safety of the entire world.

“It’s been getting worse,” Mack adds softly.

It has. And that—that’s her fault too, isn’t it?

Before, the attacks—these unpredictable, utterly random instances of Grant and/or his people going out to kill people and destroy property in one highly populated area or another—only ever lasted as long as it took SHIELD to arrive on scene, at which point Hydra would scatter. But ever since that call, ever since she told him she wasn’t coming back no matter what, Hydra’s been staying to fight.

Which is why Daisy is in surgery right now.

“You’re right,” Jemma admits, and realizes belatedly that she’s hugging herself. She lets her arms drop to her sides and straightens her shoulders. “You’re _absolutely_ right.”

“So…?”

“I’ll go back,” she promises…and then, like a moth to flame, is drawn back to the observation window. “Just as soon as—as we know, one way or another, about Daisy. I’ll go back.”

“Good,” Mack says, and grips her shoulder. “Thank you, Simmons. And—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She lays a hand over his and hopes he doesn’t notice the way her other rests on her stomach, where the life she and Grant created is slowly growing and developing. “You really are right, after all—and I do love him. I won’t be sorry to see him again.”

Mack squeezes her shoulder.

“But,” she says, “I’m going to need your help.”

“Anything you need,” he promises.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This'll be the second to last chapter--there's an epilogue to come. Come _when_ , I don't know, since I stupidly didn't get out of bed to write it when I was first inspired. Sigh. But it'll happen, and THEN this fic will be done. Finally.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and as always, please be gentle if you review! <3

Grant and Markham are in the middle of a strategy session, debating which city to hit next, when Evie bursts in uninvited.

“Sir,” she says, almost but not quite breathlessly. It’s the closest to ruffled he’s ever seen her. “Repin just called. GFR got a hit on Dr. Simmons.”

“Fucking _finally_ ,” Grant says, and grabs his phone and gun off his desk. “Where is she?”

“She was at a bus station in Vermont when the hit came in,” Evie reports. “She’s since boarded a southbound bus—next stop Manchester, New Hampshire.”

Interesting. “Any guards with her?”

“If there are, they’re well disguised,” she says.

“Send any footage you’ve got to my tablet,” he orders, and rounds the desk to grab it from the top drawer. “I’m going after her.”

“Quinjet Three is waiting for you,” Evie offers helpfully. “Recon team Gamma is already aboard.”

“Good work,” he says, and cuts a look at Markham. “You’re in charge.”

Markham looks a little dissatisfied—but then, he always does when Grant goes into the field without him or another member of Alpha Team. He’s protective; it’s cute.

What matters is that he doesn’t try to argue. “Yes, sir.”

That settled, Grant’s out the door and headed for the hangar. It’s not a long walk, and it’s made all the easier by the way everyone who sees him coming rushes to get out of his way. Whether that’s down to his status as the boss or the look on his face…eh. Even odds.

He’s not gonna lie, he’s excited. There’s a possibility that this is some kind of trap, Coulson trying to lure Grant out using his pregnant girlfriend, but if it is, he’s confident he can handle it. Either way, Jemma’ll be coming home with him at the end of it.

It’s about damn time.

 

 

+++

 

 

There’s plenty of opportunity on the flight to Manchester to review the security cam footage GFR picked up for them…and suddenly, Jemma’s reappearance makes a lot more sense.

Jemma doesn’t appear at the station with guards, true, but she doesn’t show up _alone_ , either. And Grant recognizes her friend. It takes him a second to place him, but once he does, he pulls a picture up on his phone for comparison. That’s definitely the same guy.

Not that he’s ungrateful, but he’s gonna need some answers here.

_That asset you’ve been cultivating just dropped Jemma off at a bus station_ , he texts Aldridge.

She responds with a kiss-face emoji and a _So happy to be of service, boss!_

Grant rolls his eyes.

_How’d you manage?_ he asks. Aldridge has spent the past two months seducing the guy in the hopes of gaining access to SHIELD’s Inhuman training facility, and it’s a far cry from maybe stealing his access card to talking him into _this_.

_Told a tiny fib about my brother being injured in the attack on LA four days ago_ , she says—along with a crying emoji, an emoji with a little zipper where its mouth should be, and…a red high heel? Grant doesn’t even wanna _know_ what that’s supposed to mean.

_And that’s all it took?_

_I also spent all night crying on Mack and doing a bit of wailing about what Hydra was hoping to accomplish with this stuff. Really laid it on thick tbh_ , she admits. (Plus a shrug emoji.)

Huh. Grant’s surprised that worked…but then, maybe he shouldn’t be. If this Mack guy is as gone on Aldridge as her victims usually end up, it makes sense he’d be willing to go pretty far to stop Grant’s little reign of terror for her sake.

Of course, it doesn’t _completely_ eliminate the possibility that this is a trap—for one thing, after Jemma held out in the face of all those deaths, he’s not sure why one specific injured stranger would push her over—but it at least goes a little ways to explaining why a SHIELD agent would just drop Jemma off alone at a bus station when all of Hydra is out looking for her.

_Good work_ , he texts Aldridge. _We’ll discuss your bonus once I get Jemma settled in_.

Aldridge responds with a flying stack of bills, another red high heel, and two hands pressed together. Grant decides he doesn’t need to answer that.

 

 

+++

 

 

Jemma doesn’t get off the bus in Manchester, but Grant was ready for this eventuality. He orders the Quinjet to meet them in Boston and then boards the bus, ticket in hand and Locke (Recon Gamma’s team lead) only a few steps behind him.

Honestly, he’s holding his breath while he does it. After all the weeks he’s spent trying and failing to lure her out, he’s half-expecting Jemma not to be on the bus at all…but finally, there she is, staring out a window eight rows back.

Fortunately for him—and the rest of the passengers, frankly—the seat next to her is empty.

Just in case, he does a quick scan of the bus as he makes his way down the aisle (Locke takes a seat right up front, the better to threaten the driver if something kicks off), and…yeah. He’s pretty sure everyone on this bus is a civilian. Jemma really is unaccompanied.

Well, not anymore.

“This seat taken?” he asks, even as he settles into it.

She startles—must’ve been pretty deep in thought—but doesn’t seem surprised to see him.

“Hello, Grant,” she says evenly.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He leans over to kiss her temple, just because he can, and notes with satisfaction the way her breath catches. Not that he really thought she’d gotten over him in the few weeks she was gone, but it’s nice to know for sure. “Where you headed?”

“To you, actually.”

Grant doesn’t even _try_ to hide his delight at that. “Really?”

“Really,” she says, and shifts her gaze from him to her hands. “Assuming…”

“Assuming…?”

“You’ll stop?” she asks. She sounds tired—and looks it, too, now that he’s really paying attention. Actually, she looks like hell. He frowns. “You won’t—if I come back, you’ll end these attacks?”

“Of course,” he promises. Then he thinks better of it. “Well, mostly. I’ve still got a business to run, you know.”

She laughs humorlessly.

“But no more random violence,” he adds, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. They tense up and then just as quickly relax under his touch. “I just wanted to draw you out, that’s all.”

He tries to pull her closer, guide her to rest against his shoulder. She surprises him by resisting.

“Perez nearly killed Daisy,” she says.

It’s a heavy statement, obviously intended to land hard…but hell if Grant, for all he racks his brain, can think of anyone named Daisy.

“Who?”

Jemma crosses her arms. “Skye. Daisy’s her real name.”

Well. Shit. If _Skye_ nearly died—no wonder she looks so rough. And no wonder she’s so stiff, refusing the kind of casual affection that would’ve had her damn near bubbling over with glee just a month ago.

Explains why she’s here, too. Skye nearly dying, _plus_ Aldridge’s sob story, _plus_ all the deaths—it probably ended up being a perfect storm situation. And it’s probably not a coincidence that Mack guy was the one to drop her off; the rest of the team would most likely have stopped her from going, but if they were all distracted with Skye, leaving only the guy whose girlfriend nearly just lost a brother the way the team nearly just lost a member…

They practically had a man on the inside, didn’t they? Grant owes Aldridge one hell of a bonus.

“Is that what did it?” he asks.

She swallows and doesn’t answer. Grant’s gonna take that as a yes.

“Well,” he says. “I can’t say I’m sorry, not if that’s what it took to get you back to me.”

“You used to love her,” she murmurs. There’s something off about her tone—a subdued quality that doesn’t fit her at all. He wonders what she’s thinking.

“I used to be obsessed with her,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

Kara taught him that.

“And now?” Jemma asks.

Is she jealous? Worried he still has some kind of feelings for Skye? He almost laughs.

“Now…” He turns in his seat to face her full-on and finally stops resisting the urge to lay a hand on her stomach, feel the subtle swell of their growing child. “Now, I have you. You and this baby. And that’s all I want.”

Her lips go thin, but after a long minute, her hand comes to rest on top of his. He links their fingers at the chill to her skin, hoping to warm her.

“I have some conditions,” she says quietly. “I need—I need to know that she won’t suffer for being raised in Hydra.”

“Anything,” he says…and then can’t help but ask, “‘She’?”

Jemma shrugs. “Just a feeling.”

For a second—just one, single second—Grant lets himself get swept up in that thought. In imagining a little girl with his eyes and Jemma’s smile.

It’s a very nice thought.

“She’ll be fine,” he vows. “Whatever it takes. I promise, Jemma.”

“Then yes,” she says. “I’ll come back with you.”

“Forever,” he clarifies. Best to be clear about his expectations, after all, and there’s no way in hell he’s letting Jemma ( _or_ his daughter) leave again.

“Forever,” she agrees.

She doesn’t look or sound as happy about it as he’d expect—but then, she’s probably still upset about Skye. She’ll need some time to get over that…not to mention whatever damage her weeks with SHIELD did. No doubt the team spent the whole time bashing Hydra and guilting her about her love for him. Bastards.

Well, there’s not much he can do about the latter, but the former might take some damage control. Grant makes a mental note to keep Perez off any of her guard rotations in the near future.

Her expression aside, the important thing is that he has her back. And that this time, when he tries to draw her closer, she comes willingly.

Jemma sleeps peacefully on his shoulder the rest of the way to Boston. Grant’s not ashamed to admit he passes the time doing some fully conscious dreaming of his own.


End file.
